It has been a long while since I have worked on my novel. I have been, perhaps avoiding it. It is a large project, of course, and feeling like I needed something more immediate to validate my existance as a writer, I have recently turned my energy and writing time towards shorter more immediate pieces. Having gained some success and exposure I decided it was time to get back to writing fiction.
This morning as I sat with my cup of chai and began to read the pages of my novel, I found myself emotional with my own words. Are my characters so very real that I was caught up in their struggles? Was I amazed at the intelligent prose I actually am capable of creating when I sit down and write fiction? Or was it simply that I realized just how much work I had still left to do....
I confess this isn't the first emotional hug I've had with my own writing but it surprises me every time. Certainly I am a harsh self-critic and so this emotional release stumps me.
Today I will choose to believe that my words do hold power.
Here is a short section from my novel Crossings.
Damon hated the attitude of the younger cop with his streaked blond hair and his purple-rimmed eye wear. Still he answered all the questions thoroughly, maintaining eye contact throughout and using a clear voice. His mother told him if he ever was pulled aside by any police officer he was to cooperate to the fullest, no matter what.
A robbery had occurred close by. Not in the complex he lived in or any of the other complexes which flanked the east side of much of the boulevard, but a house in a proper neighbourhood not far, but far enough in terms of wealth and attitude. He was not a suspect, the two policemen kept telling him, still they needed him to answer a few questions.
He was happy to hear his brothers had already arrived home before the blockade was set up outside the gates to the complex. They’d remain inside now and not be made to feel a criminal like he had. Coming home, he had found the two of them involved in a wrestle with Leon being held down against the floor in a headlock and the living room in a great state of disruption.
Losing his temper and lashing out on the boys always troubled him. He knew his father would be disappointed in him, but sometimes the rage just bursts forth from him before he is even aware of his anger.
He had pulled the two boys apart roughly and seated them at opposite ends of the room. They were sweating, all three of them and it took several minutes for their collective breathing to slow. Finally, order was restored and the anxiety in Damon had subsided.
He felt the weight of his father’s death daily. It was hard, he knew, for his mother to do it all alone and she had to lean on him, he didn’t blame her. Still, there were times he walked through his life with an uneasy sense of anxiety in his breast and he wished, oh he wished, he could just sit down and close his eyes for fifteen minutes.
A robbery had occurred close by. Not in the complex he lived in or any of the other complexes which flanked the east side of much of the boulevard, but a house in a proper neighbourhood not far, but far enough in terms of wealth and attitude. He was not a suspect, the two policemen kept telling him, still they needed him to answer a few questions.
He was happy to hear his brothers had already arrived home before the blockade was set up outside the gates to the complex. They’d remain inside now and not be made to feel a criminal like he had. Coming home, he had found the two of them involved in a wrestle with Leon being held down against the floor in a headlock and the living room in a great state of disruption.
Losing his temper and lashing out on the boys always troubled him. He knew his father would be disappointed in him, but sometimes the rage just bursts forth from him before he is even aware of his anger.
He had pulled the two boys apart roughly and seated them at opposite ends of the room. They were sweating, all three of them and it took several minutes for their collective breathing to slow. Finally, order was restored and the anxiety in Damon had subsided.
He felt the weight of his father’s death daily. It was hard, he knew, for his mother to do it all alone and she had to lean on him, he didn’t blame her. Still, there were times he walked through his life with an uneasy sense of anxiety in his breast and he wished, oh he wished, he could just sit down and close his eyes for fifteen minutes.
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